


The Edge

by vesuviannights



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Bondage, Dominant Muriel, Edging, F/M, Modern AU, Muriel is a soft Dom here, Overstimulation, Submissive Reader, With lots of praise, ruined orgasm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2019-10-03
Packaged: 2020-11-22 08:29:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20871224
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vesuviannights/pseuds/vesuviannights
Summary: Modern AU, where Muriel is your dom and you are tasked with edging yourself with a vibrating wand for 20 minutes. If you fail, your punishment will not be what is expected.





	The Edge

**Author's Note:**

> Written for an anon prompt on my Tumblr (@vesuviannights).

“You look so good like this, baby.”

Muriel’s soothing rumble comes from somewhere to your left, underscored by the sounds of the city, sirens and cars and that midnight hush that always lingered, even when it was alive with the sounds of the weekend.

His hands—large, warm, calloused from his life of labour—smooth up the bare backs of your calves, curl around your thighs, until they are high enough to squeeze your hips. You stir and swallow, but you are too tightly wound from both arousal and nerves to do much else but keep your breathing steady and your focus locked on what he has asked you to do.

You are strapped face-down to the table, a vibrating wand (currently off) placed directly beneath your clit so that if you exhale or relax or settle, show any sign that you are not on edge, that little bundle of nerves is resting right on it. 

You’ve tested the boundaries already, while he was adjusting your straps and asking you about your safe words. If you want off once it starts, you can only shift up—no forward or back, there isn’t enough give—which means using your muscles to keep your hips in the air. There is just enough give in your ankle binds that you can tilt your hips, giving you perhaps half an inch of space between the wand and your clit, but there’s not enough for you to be able to shift your legs and rest your weight on your knees.

Even without having experienced a minute of it, you know that you are in for a hellish night.

“How are you feeling?” Muriel asks you, his fingertips gently massaging your scalp.

The muscles of your neck and shoulders melt a little, releasing the tension you hadn’t realised you had been holding there—but he had, he had seen it, and he had settled you, taken care of you like he promised he always would.

“Green,” you answer quietly. It was your _fine_ colour, your _nothing is wrong _word.

“Good. Would you like to know what your task is tonight?” 

You nod, and he comes back into your view, his waist length hair bound into a dark bun at the crown of his head. He always asked you to do his hair before a scene, never quite able to make his preferred bun style stick like you could. It was perhaps one of your favourite moments to have with him; listening to him sigh, feeling him lean into your touch as you brushed through his hair, watching the wideness of his shoulders shift and relax as he melted into you.

“I’m going to turn the wand on,” he tells you, pushing your hair back off your forehead. He keeps his hand there, cupping your head and tracing circles at your temples with his thumb. “We’ve been practising our edging, and you’ve been learning well. I want you to go twenty minutes without coming, okay? Tell me you understand.”

You swallow, the movement thick, but you nod. “I understand.”

“Good girl. You are not to come. You are not to move. The only time you can move is when you are about to come, and then you can lift your hips from the wand, but they go straight back down once you’ve settled again. Understood?”

“Yes.”

“‘Yes’ what?”

“Yes, sir.”

Muriel murmurs his approval, slipping his hand out of your hair and disappearing from sight. Out of instinct, you go to lift your head and turn it to your other side, only to remember that he bound you there, too.

He laughs, the sound filling the room, warming your chest in ways you seem to always forget until you hear the sound again. Of all the differences you see in him when he is Dominating and when he is with you out in the world, this is the one thing he let you keep. He never holds back his laugh, and it has soothed you in more ways and moments than you may ever hope to count.

“Colour?”

“Green.” 

You hear the rattle of keys behind you before he speaks again.

“Do you want to be gagged? I have the keys for the drop signal.”

You think on it for a moment before shaking your head, even though it doesn’t move by much. “No, sir.”

He makes a noise you can’t quite decipher, followed a few moments later by the keys dropping back to the table, the rustle of fabric, and finally, his soft sigh as he settles by the side you cannot see.

“I’m going to kiss every inch of you, from toe to top, and if you move or make any noise, I’m going to start the timer all over again. Understood?”

You can’t help it—the quietest of whimpers slips from your body, joining the shudder of delight and terror as it rolls through you. Your hands tighten around the chains connecting your cuffs to the hooks at the edges of the table, and a moment later, you hear the expected _crack_ as his hand connects with your ass. 

Eyes stinging, you inhale sharply, but it’s the only sign of having felt the burning that comes an instant later. Spanking, at least, is one thing you can handle well.

“_Understood_?” He repeats, an almost cold edge to his too-quiet voice.

“Yes, sir. I understand.”

And a moment later, the wand begins to buzz.

It isn’t much at first. It’s a familiar sensation, a toy he has used to edge you with many times, or had you hold against yourself while he fucked you raw. But this new angle, the almost aching stretch of your joints, and the soft kisses he has already begun placing across your shoulders and down your back…

There are so many things working against you, every muscle coiled tight as you fight to remember all of your rules: no movement, no noise, no coming.

_No movement, no noise, no coming._

_No movement, no noise, no coming._

His teeth scrape against your lower back, his large hands squeezing and rolling the globes of your ass in his palms. His thumbs brush dangerously close to your aching hole, and you know it’s on purpose because as you bite down on your tongue to stop yourself from whimpering out the string of _please, please, please, please_ that is waiting on its tip, he makes a noise of approval and pulls them away, continuing to lick and kiss and nip his way down your body.

“Good girl, you’re doing so well.”

But it’s hard, so hard, and barely a minute in you are already having to tilt and lift your lips to stop yourself from coming. He pauses in his movements, listening to your shuddering breaths as you try to right yourself, try to concentrate and control it, just like he had taught you. And after a few moments—when you do feel controlled, but still so very on edge—you lower your hips back down once more, the vibrations of the wand against your clit beginning anew.

“You really do look so good like this,” he praises, his tongue swirling against the back of your thigh. “Every inch of you bound to the table, writhing against the vibrator. It’s so tempting, isn’t it? With the angle, and my soft kisses, and having been denied for so many hours…but you know what happens if you come without permission, right?”

You nod, and when he sinks his teeth into your ass, you sink your teeth into your tongue, tasting blood.

“Answer me.”

You shudder, a sob bubbling in your chest as you desperately try to push it down and lift your hips. There’s some resistance from his hands, almost as though he wants to keep you pinned, as though he wants you to come, wants to see you fail. 

“P-_please_!” You gasp out, tears stinging your eyes. “Please, I can’t do it—I’m going to come, please _s-stop_—”

“That’s no fun, little cub. Remember what I taught you.”

Concentration, control, calm.

_No movement, no noise, no coming._

_No movement, no noise, no coming._

_Concentration, control, calm. _

_No movement no noise no coming._

_Concentration control calm. _

_Concentration control calm—_

You let out a wretched sob as you feel yourself begin to crash, your entire body shaking and shuddering from the force of your orgasm as you try to hold it back, as you try to control it, try to stay calm, try to concentrate, but your greedy little pussy has taken over, grinding and writhing and—

The wand is gone, _the wand is gone, no no no no no_—

“NO!” 

You sob, tears now streaming down your face as your pussy throbs in its ruined orgasm, your hips desperately trying to find friction, feeling, _something_ to bring the sensation back, but there is nothing, no one—

“Disappointing, isn’t it?” He murmurs. You hear the wand click off, and now the only sounds in the apartment are your deep groans, your shuddering breaths as you fight off each frustrated sob. “To expect something to happen, only to be denied.”

He crosses into your line of sight, the wand in his hand, glistening with your arousal, reminding you of what your lack of control had cost you. He places it to your lips, and it takes you a moment before you swallow down the last of your pathetic pleases and part your lips, wrapping your tongue around the knob, cleaning your juices from it like a good cub.

And then he pulls it away, still silent in his disappointment, giving you no indication of what your punishment will be—and you _will_ be punished. You know it, though only half of you is ever pleased to be.

And you hear it a moment later—the buzzing. Every muscle in your body seizes, your breath held in your chest, until you feel him nestle the wand back underneath your tilted hips, right against your clit.

“I should have known my little cub was too greedy to last longer than 5 minutes,” he sighs. His hands smooth over your hips, your ass, gently massaging, giving nothing away. “And if orgasms are what you want, what kind of a Master would I be to deny you?”

You let a noise slip, just the barest of murmurs, his words making no sense to you. You had disobeyed him, you had come without permission…wasn’t he going to deny you? Punish you for taking what you weren’t allowed to have? You part your lips to question him, the words on the tip of your tongue—

And then he is pressing your hips down, right into the wand, with just enough force to make it clear there is no hope for escape.

Instantly, your thighs begin quivering, your clit still so sensitive from its ruined orgasm, and if it hadn’t been before, it becomes perfectly clear the exact kind of exquisite punishment you are to be given when your second orgasm takes hold of you—and when he keeps your hips pinned in place as you cry out.

You keen and whine and groan, attempting to twist and writhe in your binds, but his strength, his hold, his soft voice…it leaves no room for negotiation, and it offers not a moment of mercy. 

Your body shudders and shivers, every wave and pulse of your orgasm more intense than the last, set off again and again by the unrelenting force of the vibrations, your ability to get away, the fact that your squirming to get away only makes you writhe and grind even more against the wand. 

Your eyes cross, and your lashes flutter against your cheeks, lips parted as you pant and moan softly, incomprehensible words as the waves of your orgasm begin to subside

“Ssshhh.” His thumbs stroke small circles at the base of your spine, and when a third orgasm takes you without warning and you beg for him to _stop_, he merely tuts at you. “Is _stop_ your safe word?”

You inhale, a shuddering breath that shakes your entire body, and then exhale, the sound low and crackling in your chest.

But you do not speak. 

You do not answer. 

Because he is right. _Stop_ is not the safe word, and despite the torture of having your sensitive little nub pressed down onto the almost violent vibrations of the wand, there is a curling in your stomach, a shudder in your chest, that is aching for more of his punishment, to be praised for accepting the torture, to make up for the disappointment you caused him by not being able to edge yourself properly like the good little cub he wanted you to be.

And so you do not give him your safe word, and you do your best to stop your squirming in your fight to get away from the wand and his soothing touch, and your reward is his murmur of approval and a soft kiss to the base of your spine, just as your fourth orgasm begins to build.

“Now,” he murmurs, so soft you have to strain to hear it over your jagged breaths. “Last time you were disobedient I made you count your orgasms, all the way to 10. Do you think you could count to 13 for me this time, cub?”

Swallowing—the feeling thick, painful, thrilling—you give a single nod. 

“Good girl.”


End file.
